


Fairytale Bar

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bar, Bartender Bucky, Fairytale elements, Gay Sex, Getting Together, IDK there are no real tags man, M/M, Magic Bar, Magic elements, Moving On, alternate univers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 20:12:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17967257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: Peter has played with gods, tricksters, magicians, and witches. He’s stood next to geniuses and monsters, has himself become a monster. He’s dipped his toes into other worlds, other universes, parallel universes. He believes in a  lot of things. Impossible things. Unrealistic things. Beautiful, tragic, cruel things.But he doesn’t believe in fairytales.





	Fairytale Bar

Peter has played with gods, tricksters, magicians, and witches. He’s stood next to geniuses and monsters, has himself become a monster. He’s dipped his toes into other worlds, other universes, _parallel_ universes. He believes in a  lot of things. Impossible things. Unrealistic things. Beautiful, tragic, _cruel_ things.

But he doesn’t believe in fairytales.

Still. He finds himself traipsing through the woods of Michigan, searching for a shack. He’s heard rumors of this place. Lots of rumors. It’s the kind of place reddit and tumblr like to whisper about. No one who whispers about it has actually been there.

It’s not the kind of place people whisper about _afterwards._ Magic, he suspects. But not the kind writers get rich off. Peter tucks his gloved hands into his armpits, watches his breath cloud up in front of him.

 _Fuck ‘em_ , he thinks. The gods who stole his warmth. The man who left him cold. It’s a bit like willing it into existence, but as soon as Peter desperately wishes he could find the shack, he sees a neon light.

He snorts at the ridiculous, glowy-blue star hanging from a rusted pole. He already hates this place, _Spangled._ It looks like a Vet bar.

Peter’s never worn that kind of uniform to his wars.

Snow crunches under his boots as he makes his way to a wood-plank door. He lifts a hand to knock and the thing creaks open, starling him. He frowns, eyes flitting around looking for some kind of camera, some wire. There’s nothing though. Except for the buzzing sign. Peter eyes it warily, looking for anything to give it power.

He hates magic. Even if it is just science he hasn't learned yet.

The door shifts, the slightest swinging like a head saying “Well?”

“Fine then,” He mutters to himself. Stepping through the door is a bit like being transported. It’s warm; warm like Florida in August. He immediately peels of the heavy coat, tucks his gloves into the pocket and yanks his hat from his head.

There’s nowhere he can see to hang it, except over his shoulder.

The whole place is dimly lit, and even with his spectacular sight, Peter finds himself squinting just a bit. It’s not crowded, not really. Thirteen tables spaced haphazardly, mismatched chairs and candles on them. Six people sit scattered at the tables, seven at the bar.

No one even turns when he walks to the bar. The wood creaks and groans beneath his feet, shifts like it’s weary and bored. Like it too, has been searching for something and only to be disappointed by the rotting thing it finds. “Fuck you too,” he mutters, slipping onto a sticky stool, letting his coat fall to the floor.

He blinks, and there’s a man standing before him. Dead blue eyes, wavy dark hair and a beard to match. The man places a glass in front of him, metal hand glinting, and Peter picks it up, sniffs it. He takes a sip, and the scotch burns down his throat, making him grimace.

Barman gives him a dirty look. “I’m never wrong, KI’d. I’ve never handed someone what they didn’t want to drink.”

Peter gives him a sly smile. “I didn’t say I didn’t want it, now did it Mr. Barman.”

The gives him another frown, before stalking off to hand a large, long-haired blond male a tall glass of emerald liquid. The short, dark haired guy beside him rolls his eyes, until Barman hands him a hot-pink fizzy thing, and even in the low light, Peter can see the flush on his neck.

Peter sips his drink and studies the shack he’s in. There’s a metal helmet in the center of one wall, surrounded by rows and rows of dog-tags. Part of Peter wants to investigate, but something stops him. Pictures. Barman is… so young, and so very much the same, in the faded sepia photos. But that’s not what makes Peter’s heart clench, what makes his stomach roll. He tosses the scotch back, and before he’s even slammed the glass to the counter, there’s another one before him.

“You miss ‘em?” Barman asks blandly.

Peter shakes his head. “Hard to miss what you see every day.”

Barman nods and plucks the towel off his shoulder. He wipes a perfectly clean bar and stares at Peter with the kind of lazy intensity that makes Peter want to talk.

“I hate scotch,” Peter mutters. Barman smiles, the faintest uptick of lips beneath curls. Peter’s eyes narrow, but he finds himself continuing. “Thing is, I do. Hate scotch. But it’s also what I always order.”

“Because _he_ loves it. Because it taste like his kisses and burns like his touch,” Barman says quietly.

Peter frowns, fingers clenching his glass. He could break it, if he wanted. Squeeze too hard and watch the glass shatter. “Sure know a lot for a man I’ve never met.”

Barman shrugs and tosses the towel back over his shoulder. “Why’d he like it?”

“Because his dad liked it,” Peter confesses. It’s not something he’s ever said out loud. Something Tony never admitted. Tony didn’t like his father, could barely stand the man. But he did love him. That’s what sons do. “And scotch? Seemed to be the one thing they could agree on. Could do together amicable. He can tell you 100 different fun facts about a single glass.” Peter takes a slow sip, wondering when he’d begun talking.

“You love him.” And it’s not a question, but Barman isn’t looking at him either. He’s staring at the helmet.

“What do you drink?” Peter asks.

Barman gives Peter a flat look that cuts, and stalks away. He disappears into the back, leaving Peter with a half empty glass and too many questions.

He twitches on his stool, fingers tapping. It strikes him, suddenly, that the bar is quiet. _Deathly_ quiet. No music, no conversation. Occasionally a soft whisper or a clinking glass breaks the odd blanket of silence, but Peter can’t even hear a heater. And he knows there has to be one, because there’s at least two feet of snow outside and Peter can see the gaps in the walls.

He gets up, and his footsteps sound loud, even to his own ears. But he makes his way to the pictures he noticed earlier. The ones with the young-but-not Barman. There’s a girl, lethal smile and delicate curls, lips Peter can imagine as cherry red pressed to Barman’s cheeks. There’s a guy too, small, faded, even in the color-drained photo. He kisses Barman’s other cheek, and there’s this… this glow about the photo that hurts to look at.

So Peter doesn’t. He moves on. Photo after photo of the happy trio, old hats and dainty dresses. On a beach, in New York, traipsing through markets in Europe. It’s hard to see when, exactly, but somewhere Peter can practically touch the shift. When the trio becomes a two-plus-one. It ends in a church, slim white dress, black tuxedo, Barman holding out the rings.

Peter wonders how many people have noticed the longing in his eyes, and guessed which person it belonged to. He reaches a dinger out, traces the smile of a boy who grew into a man, _miraculously._

“It’s easy to share when you’re both losing,” Barman says it quiet, says it right in Peter’s ear. His breath smells like cheap beer, but his eyes are bright. Dry.

“Someone always wins,” Peter says, just as quiet. “Even when you didn’t realize you were competing.”

Barman snorts. “You knew, kid, that you were competing. Always know. Everyone but the prize knows.”

This time it’s Peter who scoffs. “Tony was no prize, Barman. He wasn’t a trophy to be lost. He was just a man.” Peter kicks his sneakers against the floorboard. “But yeah, it’s easier to share when you think ‘both of us lose here.’ But she didn’t. Lose. I did. And somehow it sucks way more than I thought it would.” He glances up, and it’s still really dim in the damn bar.

But he can see the ancient pain looming in dead blue eyes. Peter feels it, somewhere in his left ribs. Hollow, cold, aching. He fucking hates it. Hates this shitty bar, the scotch he left on the counter. The knowing look in an ancient man’s eyes. “I let her win, you know. I stopped fighting for him.”

“Because you loved her too,” Barman answers.

“We always do, don’t we? Love them both? But she was good,” Peter says, hating the way it comes out wet.

“That’s why it hurts, yeah? Cause she was good, and kind. Noble. She fit him like you couldn’t,” Barman replies. And there’s no judgement in his voice but Peter wants to hurt him, make him shake the way he trembles with the rage.

“She could heal him, make him hole again. You could only take, break,” Peter snarls.

The bar gets cold as Barman takes a sip of the Coors Peter only just notices in his hand. “Listen, Kid. Be glad you only lost one of them,” he sighs before stalking back to the bar.

Peter steps back, feels the wood between his shoulders. He turns back towards the photos and studies them. Notices how Barman mostly lived between the couple, always tucked beneath their arms.

He notices there’s no one standing by the bride, and bile burns through his chest. He makes his way quietly to the bar, sits on his stool, and plays with the condensation. “I loved Pepper, you know. Loved her so much, but I wasn’t in love with her. She was… Well she was no Aunt May. But she was,” Peter frowns, thinking of all that Pepper was to him. “She was steady.”

Barman drops a dark drink in front of him, and Peter frowns. “Bacardi, Diet Coke, a splash of Texas Pete. Trust me.”

Peter does, for reasons he has no clue of. The liquid, it burns, but it’s soothing. Like skin against skin on a cold night against a brick wall. Like the twenty tucked into a pocket, like hotel beds on a July night. Like red hair, green eyes, freckles, no names.

Barman stares at him with his head cocked. Dead blue eyes spark, and Peter can see when Barman finds in his own eyes whatever kindred suffering he’s looking for. Barman slides his hand across the table and then walks away. Peter picks up the small key and studies it for a long time. He turns just in time to see Barman disappear up stairs sitting by the wedding photo.

 _Huh,_ Peter thinks. He hates fairytale magic. Hates the hole in his chest that’s stolen his ability to observe.

The door slides shut, and before he even really thinks about it, Peter’s on his feet, coat still dropped to the floor and he presses his fingers to the wall until he finds the notch, the key hole.

The door opens with absolutely no noise, and that makes Peter nervous. Like the time he was on a bus sitting next to a girl he thought he might love. But he’s 9 years past that naive boy.

He makes his way up narrow stairs, eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. “Couldn’t’ve hung at least one light?” He mutters. There’s no answer, but when Peter reaches the top, steps into the bedroom, he smiles.

The room has bare walls, and a singly, _dismal_ grey rug. There’s a bed on a wrought iron frame, barely built for one, sheets hanging off the side, a dark-wood dresser with a pitcher of water and a basin, and a milk crate used as a bedside table. The room is chilly, the good kind of chilly.

Barman dips his hands into the basin and splashes his face. He doesn’t turn towards Peter as he pulls his shirt over his head. It catches a little, on the elbow-hinge of the metal arm. And Peter steps forward to help him. His fingers skid over skin that’s surprisingly smooth for the scars that cover it.

Warm, too.

Barman just smiles at him, lets Peter yank the shirt over his head and toss it into the corner. Peter’s hands shake, just a little when he reaches for the buttons on Barman’s jeans. They always shake when he undoes those buttons. He thinks it’s because jeans are nothing like Italian suits; they’re rough against the pads of his fingers.

“What’s your name?” Peter asks, because the silence is making him uncomfortable. Because as he slides jeans down over thick thighs, his mind is a six thousand miles east in a Penthouse that smells like oil.

“Bucky,” he answers, hands coming up to cup Peter’s jaw. “We don’t have to do this.” But he already knows.

Peter rolls his eyes and rips his own shirt over his head. Bucky goes to help him with his jeans and at first Peter tries to bat his hand away, but Bucky grips his wrist in that metal hand. “Let me.”

It’s an order, and Peter hates when people order him about like a child. But this time, letting someone else touch him, feeling the cold steel and the rough skin in the curls on his belly…

It’s been a long time.

Peter hasn’t been this hard in a while. Since before he stood at an alter and give his heart away on a pillow.

Bucky kisses him. His beard tickles against Peter’s cheek, and the taste of beer isn’t exactly pleasant, but Peter stands on his toes, licks into the flavor, past it. Bucky’s personal flavor is smooth and bitter and soothing, and Peter tangles his fingers in the long, sweaty hair, letting himself get lost.

Bucky lifts Peter by the thighs, dumps him gracelessly on the small bed. The metal frame creaks, and Peter lays his head against a lumpy pillow, fingers digging in to Bucky’s shoulders. He glances into the crate and laughs a little. “Seriously?”

Bucky scowls at him and bites his hip. “Nothing wrong with something a little extra.”

Peter shrugs and picks up the sugar-cookie lube. “Just doesn’t fit the vibe you’ve got going on. The mountain-man loner thing.” It comes out a little breathless, because turns out metal fingers go in cold, but warm pretty quickly. Bucky mouths at the crease where Peter’s thigh and hip meet, works his fingers quickly.

Peter’s hips twitch up, and he can feel his toes curling against use-soften sheets. He doesn’t close his eyes, not really, but he’s staring through his lashes as Bucky moves.

Bucky takes it slow, gentle. He’s not like some of the others Peter’s picks. Not a fast and dirty fuck beside a dumpster. Part of Peter itches to order him to _move._ To demand he fucking get _on_ with it.

Somehow he gets the impression Bucky wouldn’t play nice that way.

Bucky smiles against his thigh, bites down hard. “Are you always this impatient?”

Peter grunts a little, digs his nails into sun-browned skin. “You always this slow?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, just crooks his fingers and twist, until Peter’s back arches and he can’t help the long, low whine he emits.

“That’s my boy,” Bucky murmurs.

For a split second the room is empty-cold, not air cold, He’s laying on on his stomach silk sheets in a bed as big as a pool, and Tony’ curled against his back, whispering in his ear while Pepper tuts about the kitchen.

Bucky places a kiss to Peter’s neck, licks his way up behind his ear, crosses his cheeks, He waits, for Peter to return, for the fog in his eyes to clear. “‘M not your boy,” Peter says past the burn in his eyes.

“You’re no one’s boy,” Bucky says gently.

“You would know,” Peter growls.   
  
Bucky doesn’t answer. He peels the foil condom packet open and slips it on in practiced moves. He isn’t slow or gentle as he enters Peter. He’s not cruel and demanding either. He enters in a single motion, and Peter feels the breath punch out of him.

Bucky holds still for a moment, waiting until Peter adjust. He sets a strange, frantic rhythm. A drum-beat, heart-beat, war-beat, Peter feels up and down his spine. He moves like one rediscovering movement, like a man _finally_ feeling something.

Bucky’s hands are all over him, his hips, his ass, his chest, his ankles. Peter feels Bucky, every inch of him, and he finds himself practically mewling. At some point, Bucky pulls him into his lap, holds him close and buries his face in Peter’s neck.

It’s a god awful angle, it slows the pace, but it’s the best damn thing Peter has ever felt and he sobs against Bucky’s jaw.

Bucky comes first, Peter’s nails digging into the small of his back. He comes with a single grunt, almost a heavy and relieved sigh. Peter comes, hot on his belly and Bucky’s, and he sees stars. He comes like it’s the first time again, and it might as well be, for everything he feels.

He falls back against the pillows as Bucky slides out of him, squelchy and gross, but so pleasant. He’s bone-limp, tired, _sweaty_ , but the cold air feels damn good. Bucky disappears to the basin and comes back with a damp t-shirt to wipe them off. He collapses half beside, half on Peter, and they lay there for a while.

All Peter can hear is their breaths, and if he tries, their hearts. “How long?” Peter asks. He trails his fingers feather light over a long, winding road across Bucky’s left thigh.

Of course Bucky knows what he means. “It felt right. You felt right.”

Peter hums. He knows what Bucky means. When the barman drifts off, head crooked awkwardly into Peter’s neck, he finds himself running his fingers through dark, sweaty, long hair.

He’s about to get up, to gather his things, when Bucky shifts. “Stay,” Bucky mutters sleepily, looks at him with blue eyes that are soft and alive, before slipping back into sleep.

Peter? He believes in gods and magic and science and humans who are more but he’s never believed in fairytale magic. But he’ll admit this; there’s a bar, lost in the woods and run by an ancient man. A man who's lost everything, and loved deeply. And he finds lost little things and he doesn’t heal them (can’t really heal that kinda heartbreak) but he finds them and waters them and gives them a place to grieve people who still live.  And he found Peter and he felt right to Peter in a way no one since Tony has. So he doesn’t believe in fairytales but he believes in unexplainable, lost, grimy wood bars

 

And he stays.


End file.
